God of Ice
by Old Crone
Summary: Intending to have her way with him, the Queen of Blades seeks out the Dark Lord of the Dead. AU.


**Warcraft and StarCraft belong to Blizzard.**

God of Ice

He lay as one of the dead—his shroud, the long, pale tangle of his silver-white hair. Majestic, chiseled, perfect in form, the powerful body was naked, outstretched upon the bed. He was as luminous as frost in the dark, dead chill of his sanctum.

_'Magnificent,' _Kerrigan thought, her gaze an intangible caress.

It was said he was a god of death; and to his furtive intruder, he was indeed an unearthly sight. His flesh glazed with a glittering mist of rime, he seemed sculpted of the moonlit glacier, the very quintessence of ice, itself.

And even in his deep repose, there was about him an aura of pervasive malevolence.

_ 'He sleeps… does he dream?' _

The Queen of Blades moved onto the bed, slowly, stealthy; but as if sensing her presence, he stirred. Or, and she smiled with the thought, perhaps he was simply ever-aware of the life force, _his prey. _

He opened his eyes. They focused upon her; and Kerrigan was transfixed by his singular, lambent gaze.

Silent and still, the Lich King watched, a phantom radiance drifting in wisps from beneath his wintry lashes.

Kerrigan sprang then, and quickly, lest he move against her. Leaping astride him, she made her strength known; and grasping his wrists, she pinned them down above his snowy head, her bladed wings angled to strike. The icy King did not resist; he did not respond at all—not to her aggressions, nor to her transfigured shape. One so feared by many.

_'__He does not__—__cannot__—__fear.__'_

His formidably-muscled body slowly flexing beneath her, Arthas inclined his head, as if idly wondering what she might dare think to impose upon him.

Kerrigan leaned close, studying the serene face of a fiend. His skin was frosted alabaster, his regal features, _beautiful._ This god of ice, whose terrible wrath was his renown. He scrutinized her; and his disposition towards her bold intrusion was patent as his lips curled in a faint, malicious smile.

_'__He knows why I am here.__'_

It was when she released one of his wrists—so she might touch his face and brush curious fingers through his ashen mane—that he first frowned, as if discontent, his eyes narrowing with sudden, terrifying hostility. Countering, Kerrigan took a restraining grip upon his hair, pulling back his head, and forcing his strong neck to arch in painful compliance. The frown faded as he gave a husky groan, a soft growl of pleasure, one rife with dark intention. Again, he slowly tensed, and then relaxed beneath her—both a threat and a dangerous invitation.

Kerrigan smiled, a flush of abandon washing through her at his incitement; there was no question he knew what she wanted. She shivered, more from the sharp prickle of desire than even the killing frost he wore. Emanations of his mastery, delicate crystals of ice began to form in lacy whorls across her carapace. Fascinated by this, and by the heat that rose in her, in response to his overwhelming chill, she leaned closer still, nuzzling his jaw, tasting the ice.

He lifted his freed hand to touch the shimmering marks that latticed her brow and cheekbones, smiling when their separate powers crackled in contest. Cool fingertips slipped across her glossy skin, leaving a tingling trail of sensation down her spine as he explored her exotic textures. His hard palm briefly cupped one breast and he teased its taut nipple with the rough pad of his thumb. Kerrigan writhed, aroused by the seductive menace in that deadly hand as it moved across her flesh in an eerily-gentle caress, stroking her lower belly before coming to rest upon her hip. His touch was subtle, unhurried, provocative—but latent within it was a crushing ferocity.

Kerrigan murmured her approval, but quickly recaptured the questing hand, returning it to its fellow, and laying her forearm possessively across broad wrists made strong and limber through the wielding of steel. As she again drew nearer, Arthas raised his head; Kerrigan felt his chilling breath upon her skin, the light brush of an arctic kiss, and then the cold, hard edges of his teeth, as they grazed the sensitive curve of her neck.

_"__Now__…" _she breathed in his ear, lifting her wings and lowering their spiked tips to nudge his throat. Arthas did not resist, even as the razor edges of her blades sliced into his skin. She was not the first to want his blood. "Now, you will heed _me_, Dark One."

He pondered her, still silent, only tilting back his head as Kerrigan investigated his dead-yet-living flesh; and the pulseless throat was bared for her hunger. His taunting smile returned, lazy and ferocious, as if encouraging her to take the greater risk—to step off the edge, and into _his_ kingdom.

Kerrigan laughed softly, 'I will _show_ you harm,' she thought, nestling into him as she tasted his sorcerous blood. Its heady magic flowed into her, imbuing, and revealing to her the true depths of his great power. She raised her head and caught his icy lips with her sharp teeth, teasing with her tongue, pressing in for a rapacious kiss. His response was hungry, bruising, callous. Roused by this first initiation of violence, her grip tightened; the desire to claim him—_to_ _control_ _hi__m_—was overpowering.

And now she sensed the wrath that lay in wait, just beneath the brittle façade of his apparent calm. A low growl rumbled in Arthas' throat as he fixed her with a baleful gaze, one that glinted with escalating rage. His powerful swordsman's hands were but one flex from being lethal fists.

There would be no stopping him, _and no survival_, if he chose to act; without words, he made that warning clear. Still, he offered his allowance, and as Kerrigan slowly loosened her hold, all tension left him.

The Queen of Blades smiled, wondering how long he had waited for one insane enough to try and quell him.

"Perhaps I will make of you a mighty warrior of the Swarm…" Kerrigan said, resting her fingertips upon Arthas' bleeding throat; with a hoarse sigh, she licked his seething blood from her talons.

"You will have what I elect to _give,_ creature…" was the Lich King's reply, "before I take your soul and make you _mine_…" He stroked the chitinous canes upon her head, intrigued by their insectile nature, tugging at them before winding his strong fingers into an unbreakable grip and drawing her to him for another brutal kiss.

He laughed, a reverberant, desolating sound, whispering to her at this intimate proximity, "If you _have_ a soul to bend to my will…"

"You toy with me…" Kerrigan murmured, slipping her fingers across his upper chest, gazing upon the broad span of his shoulders, the thickness of his corded arms, the strength and beauty of his redoubtable might; and she reveled in the terrible peril of his close attentions. Stroking his skin, where her keen blades had pierced him, she lapped at the pooled blood, as it froze to blackening ice in the hollow of his throat. She closed her teeth on him where the pulse should have pounded, but did not. _"Fight me…"_ she said to him, feasting on the dark magic in his blood, "Give me something of yourself to steal…"

Again she looked up, into eyes so cruel even she could not suppress a quiver; but it was more of lust than fear.

"No one makes demands of _me_," the Lich King assured her with the faintest, soulless smile.

_"I can… I do..."_ Kerrigan said; and her talons sank deep for a predator's purchase, "Give yourself to me. _Now_…"

She had known from the first moment they touched that she could not compel him against his will; while she was made strong in the Swarm, he was indomitable. His power, his maleness, his anger, they inflamed her; and she longed to rule him, even as he broke free of her grip, easily throwing her off him and onto her back. He turned quickly, incensed and ruthless—precisely what Kerrigan sought to excite—crushing her down beneath him. She hissed her pleasure.

Arthas lowered his head, his long, ghostly hair spilling across her, his glowing eyes intent; but there was more than murder on his mind. His cold mouth took hers, a savage, biting kiss—one that left her bloody. Kerrigan gasped, thrashing, enfolding him in her wings, provoked to frenzy by his sudden enmity. Her talons slashed his skin; and his blood sprinkled her in a chill rain. He cursed, he laughed, returning hurt for hurt, appeased by her willing tenacity, as he goaded her to a deeper, more violent response.

She tore at him, twisting in his inescapable grasp, feeling his burgeoning arousal rising against her. She pummeled his wide back and lean ribs, flesh so hard it might have been stone. Blows that would have killed any other man were no more to him than the sting of sleet. He seemed invincible; and perhaps he was.

His ardent, _vicious_ mouth moved to her breasts, forcing shrieks of pleasure from her with teeth and tongue. Again, he ravaged her heated flesh, nuzzling into her welling blood, wolfish.

It was not a request when he lifted her knees, opening and moving aggressively between them. His hard belly brushed hers, making his intentions plain; his icy cock invaded her slick lips, seeking her heat. He would take and use her, she knew, and force her to his will. Yet her body craved that succumbing, her hips lifting, rolling against his, aching for the deep, hurting thrust that would annihilate the hunger he had ignited in her.

_'But not yet,'_ Kerrigan thought, reaching between their writhing bodies to grip the heavy shaft of his cock, tightening her fist upon its proud girth. _'Only one will be taken this night… and it will not be the Queen of Blades…'_

"No…" she said, and he raised his head to look at her. His argent hair was feathered with her blood; and when he bared his teeth to her, they were bestial, streaked red. _"I decide_," she said, "and I will not be _used_… not even by a god."

"You will do as I _command…"_ His was the very voice of malice, and he pressed his advantage, despite her merciless hold. She could smell her blood on his breath, _"I will tear you apart," _he promised.

"Do you crave abject _obedience...?"_ Kerrigan whispered, "Meekness and submission?" She met and held his furious gaze, "Or do you seek your _equal?_ _Choose_, death god." His body was taut with rage; but the Queen of Blades did not fear death. In the Swarm, there was no fear.

They exchanged an implacable look; and Kerrigan waited—for the blow that would end her, or for his accord. She did not allow herself to pause or quail at the passing of that grave moment of uncertainty, only releasing her hold on him, as he moved off her, turning onto his back; and she smiled at his snarl of thwarted passion. As long as he still felt hunger, he was hers for the taking.

As his anger subsided, Kerrigan moved astride him once again. Her body swayed, wings opening above him, her hips moving, supple and serpentine, against his own as she caressed his rigid length with her wet folds before sliding sinuously down his restless body, to recline between his powerful spread thighs.

His legs were long and strong, shaped of solid muscle, the bone-white skin lightly strewn with snowy, silken hair. Kerrigan stroked this fine flesh, biting his inner thighs, again leaving his blood in her wake. She stared at his long, heavy cock; it throbbed, impatient, glistening with her moisture. Feeling his smoldering gaze upon her, she moved to taste him. He grunted softly, as she licked the potent rod from its root to its tip, taking him into her mouth.

Kerrigan tempted and tortured him, testing the threshold of his pain with her sharp teeth, and nails, her adept tongue fluttering to make him gasp. She stroked and urged him until he groaned—a rough, breathless sound that only deepened her desire; and when his eyes half closed, as the god of death fell fast and fully to her persuasions, she thought, exultant,

_'He is mine.'_

She moved to take him.

Cold he was, so cold, opening her with his ice, in piercing imposition; but it was not _comfort_ that she sought in riding him. It was _power;_ and his was brutal. She groaned, gloating, as he was sheathed deeply within her, his rough warrior's hands commanding her flesh with cruel relish. And as she burned for him, pain was swallowed up by intense pleasure.

He was not gentle, nor was she. They struggled together in contention, violent, relentless, battling; and Kerrigan did not waver as she took from him what she coveted and required.

When release came for her, it was as pitiless as he was, as unyielding as she. With punishing intensity, sensation peaked to overwhelm her, forcing a ragged, growling scream from her throat; and she rode its crest as she rode him, her back arching, wings spread, her hands grasping his thighs, as his knowledgeable, caressing fingers took her past the brink into dark ecstasy. She convulsed, crying out, her eyes widening with the dismantling shock of complete response; and this was when he seized her.

He could not be resisted; Kerrigan had no will to do so as he took her down. She folded her legs across his lower back as he moved violently onto her, shoving himself deep into her aching heat, her overwrought flesh screaming its hurt and hunger at his aggressive trespass. Kerrigan gave him all, taking all, and he watched her do so with murderous eyes. Arousal rose as a tide to wholly consume her, and eager for his force and its pain, she shuddered again and again, as his fierce body made its demands of hers, until she was obliterated, collapsing in his arms, as he growled, tautening on her; she felt his cold flood fill her, and in that moment, all appetite was sated.

The only sound was their panted breaths. Arthas pressed his face to her throat, his mouth moving upon her torn skin—soft, languid kisses. With a faint murmur of pleasure, Kerrigan relaxed completely beneath him, immersed in their shared power.

"Stay," she whispered in his ear, feeling him tense at such intimacy. "Let me feel you on me…" The Lich King said nothing, only shifting as if to move off her. Kerrigan's arms encircled his neck, and though he tossed his head, the Queen of Blades held him fast. "Do you think to dismiss me now?" she said, "You are _mistaken_."

_"Release me," _he demanded. "Fear me."

"I fear nothing. Why should I fear you?"

His lust was satisfied; now it was only murder's hunger that remained. _"__Shall __I show you?"_ he whispered.

"And _fear_ will stop you? I think not..."

With a hiss of laughter that still held a venomous edge of anger, Arthas relented, taking her into his ice embrace. While his was the exacting weight of warrior muscle, Kerrigan was the same—with a changeling's strength and hardened flesh. She held him close, triumphant, their long, strong limbs entwined. Neither moved for many moments; but soon Arthas grew restive, and when he next sought to distance himself, she did not prevent him, only reluctantly releasing her hold and watching as he turned onto his back beside her.

Kerrigan closed her eyes. She had what she wanted, nonetheless; a stolen residue of his power lingered, as a sheen of sweat between them. A rune was cast upon her soul; and her body ached for its price, quaking from his dominion.

Shortly, when he moved again, she looked to find him studying her. The King's stony face was shadowed, and with his lashes lowered, his eyes were but slivers of spectral fire.

"Do you like what you see?" she asked.

"Yes," he murmured. Only his gaze touched her, but she could feel the deathly pall of his ice inciting her.

"Then take what you want."

"Taking what I want is my habit," he said. His smile was cold and it was knowing. Kerrigan could only wonder what consequences would come of her presumption. There was a penalty to pay for invoking _his_ wrath.

The Queen of Blades did not know how he might judge her, nor did she care; for he had still been _hers_ for that one surpassing moment.

He moved then, and when she took him to her, she was fearless.


End file.
